


If It Looks Like a Duck

by destroythemeek



Category: Mighty Ducks (Movies)
Genre: Apologies, Boarding School, Gen, M/M, Video & Computer Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 04:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8875759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destroythemeek/pseuds/destroythemeek
Summary: The Bash Brothers try to make Adam feel like a part of the team again.  Post-D3.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maeve_of_Winter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeve_of_Winter/gifts).



> Thank you for the lovely prompt, maeve_of_winter! It was a pleasure to write these boys.

Portman brings it up about a month after the game against Varsity. “Hey, Fulton,” he says. “What’s up with Banksy?”

They’re walking down the hallway, making their way through the crowd to get to their next class. They aren’t rushing – that’s something they only do when the locker room is their destination – but they aren’t wasting time, either. They have a pace that works for them, on and off the ice.

“What do you mean?” Fulton asks.

“He’s all…twitchy. Like he’s always bracing for a check. Didn’t you see him in the hall just now? He barely made eye contact.”

Fulton had not, actually, seen Adam. He’d been facing Portman, giving him his full attention. It never occurred to him to give Portman anything less.

“Well,” Fulton says, “I guess he could still be pissed about the prank war.”

“Prank war?” And, right. Portman wasn’t there. As if Fulton could forget.

Fulton opens his mouth to explain, but they’ve reached their math classroom. “I’ll tell you later,” he says, as he and Portman slip into their seats a second before the bell.

~*~

“So let me get this straight,” Portman says. He’s sitting backwards in Fulton’s desk chair, arms resting on the back, tipping it forward onto two legs every so often. “You guys ruined all his equipment and filled his bed with _fire ants_ , all because he was good enough to go up a level?”

“You weren’t there,” Fulton protests. He knows he must sound whiny, but he needs Portman to understand. “He was one of _them_.”

“And now he’s one of us again,” Portman counters. “Just like me. Only, it seems like nobody bothered to let him know.” The muscles in his arms tighten up as he grips the back of the chair.

Fulton pulls his eyes away. “He’s on the ice with us every day,” he says. “How can he not know?”

“Dude,” Portman says. “Don’t be a jerk. Tomorrow, we’re fixing this.”

And because Fulton knows he could never say no to Dean Portman, he shrugs. “Ok.”

~*~

They catch Adam at lunch the next day, coming at him from both sides with trays piled high with food. “What’s up, cake-eater?” Fulton asks, and Portman shifts his tray to one hand so he can throw his other arm around Adam’s shoulders.

“Um. Hi?” Up close, Fulton can see the twitchiness Portman was talking about. Adam’s eyes are darting rapidly from left to right, like he’s convinced they’re going to dump their trays over his head. Which, given the precarious position Portman’s tray is currently in, might happen anyway.

“Sit with us,” Fulton says, putting his own tray down on a table. Portman thankfully takes the hint and puts his down, too. The rest of the team has a lab during Thursday lunch, so they’re the only Ducks in the cafeteria. It occurs to Fulton that he has no idea where Adam’s been sitting most of those Thursdays.

“…ok,” Adam says, and settles down with his own tray. 

“So we were thinking,” Portman says, around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “We should hang out, the three of us. I heard there’s a new indoor mini golf place in downtown St. Paul. What do you say? Sunday sound good?”

Adam looks paler than usual, which is honestly an accomplishment. “Um…”

“Damn, Banksy, it’s not like we bite,” Fulton says. He’s almost offended by Adam’s stricken expression, but he has to concede that, given recent events, the fear isn’t entirely unwarranted. 

“Why me?” Adam asks, finally.

Fulton definitely isn’t prepared to answer that question, but Portman is. “You’re the only guy on the team I haven’t gotten a chance to hang out with since I got to Eden Hall,” he says. There’s enough truth in the statement that his voice doesn’t waver for a second.

Adam glances over at Fulton, like he’s about to ask how _he_ fits into this equation, but he seems to think better of it, letting his eyes track back to Portman a second later. Everybody knows that the Bash Brothers are a package deal. 

“Well, I…I guess?” Adam replies. “Sure. I’d like that.”

Portman grins hugely, teeth white and blinding, and slaps Adam on the back. “Great! Meet us at the bus stop at 10.”

~*~

Mini-golf goes exactly the way Fulton might have imagined, if he’d bothered to think about it. Adam, ever the precise shot, wins easily, beating Portman by a full seven points. Portman’s swing is steady but unpracticed, and he nearly gets in a fight with the father of the five-year-old one hole ahead of them after the man makes a snide remark about Portman’s sleeveless shirt. Fulton, meanwhile, manages to knock over a plaster dolphin, ricochet a ball off a pile of rocks and into a water trap two holes away, and snap the blade of a windmill in half. The slapshot, it turns out, is not well-suited to miniature golf.

“Way to go, Banksy!” Portman says after the last hole, slapping Adam on the back hard enough to make him stagger forward.

Adam looks less alarmed than he did in the cafeteria, but only slightly. “Thanks?” he says. “You were pretty good, too.”

Portman gestures at the snack bar on the other side of the mini golf complex. “Let’s celebrate with some ice cream.”

Fulton cringes. He’s already paid for a bus ticket and a round of golf, and his parents can only afford to send him so much money each month. But he also doesn’t want to admit that – especially not in front of the cake-eater – so he follows his friends to the snack bar.

He’s still trying to figure out what to do by the time Adam finishes ordering his own ice cream. “Hey, go find us a table,” Portman says, as Adam gathers up his sundae. When Adam is gone, Portman steps up to the counter. “Two chocolate sundaes, extra fudge.”

“You trying to bulk up or something?” Fulton asks. Even for Portman, two sundaes seems excessive. “You really don’t need to.” Images of Portman stripping in the penalty box float across his mind.

“No, man.” Portman grins. “The second one’s yours. Least I can do after I dragged you here. And after we kicked your ass so badly.”

Fulton’s face grows warm. He knows what Portman’s doing, knows that Portman is fully aware of Fulton’s financial situation. His pride is dented, but most of what he feels is gratitude. “Fine, I’ll take my loser sundae,” he says, with a weak laugh. 

As they take their ice cream and head across the room to join Adam at the table, Portman reaches out and squeezes the back of Fulton’s neck. His hand feels cold, and Fulton can’t tell if it’s because of the ice cream or because of the flush still reddening his neck. 

“So what else do you do for fun, Banksy?” Portman asks, when they’ve settled down at the table.

Adam shrugs, but he doesn’t look as shy as he did the other day, and he meets Portman’s eyes. “I dunno. Video games, mostly? When I hurt my wrist last year, not getting to play video games was almost as bad as not getting to play hockey.”

“There’s an arcade around the corner from my parents’ place,” Fulton says. Before he met the Ducks and actually made some friends, he’d head over there to kill time whenever he had some extra change and the weather was too shitty for shooting pucks in the alley.

“Looks like we have plans for next weekend, then,” Portman says, grin wide as ever. 

Across the table, Adam shoots Fulton a quizzical glance, but Fulton just nods. “Guess we do.”

~*~

The arcade is basically the same as Fulton remembers, with the exception of a few new games. Portman makes a beeline for Cruis’n, and Adam and Fulton follow. “Go ahead,” Fulton says, gesturing to Adam. “I’ll play winner.” Portman and Adam sink into the hard plastic seats and grab the tiny steering wheels, and Fulton wanders off to a pinball table. He doesn’t have much cash on him, but he figures that as long as he only plays the games he’s good at, he’ll be able to make a few dollars stretch pretty far.

When the silver ball finally falls between the flippers, Fulton returns to the Cruis’n console, where Adam and Portman are cracking up. “The _cows_!” Portman is saying, and Adam doubles over in his seat with another round of laugher.

“Guess you guys are having fun,” Fulton says.

Adam looks up, suppressing his giggles “The day Portman gets his license, I’m leaving the continent,” he says solemnly, and then he and Portman start laughing all over again. A sour sensation hits the back of Fulton’s throat.

“Ok, who won?” Fulton asks. Adam points to himself and Portman stands up, offering Fulton his seat. Fulton takes it and jams his quarters into the slot with more force than necessary. 

If Portman had come to Eden Hall in September like he was supposed to, he and Fulton would have visited this arcade months ago. They’d be the ones with inside jokes about the cows in the Germany track.

Adam chooses the France track, and they take off at the cue of the computer-generated women waving their flags. Fulton focuses his attention on the game as much as he can, but it gets harder when Portman decides to pop his head between Fulton and Adam, gripping their seatbacks in each hand. His breath is warm on Fulton’s ear, and his fingers tangle slightly in strands of Fulton’s hair.

“Will you knock it the hell off?” Fulton snaps, after he crashes his digital car for the third time. He turns to face Portman, whose face is _way_ too close and looks more than a little hurt. Fulton’s heart speeds up, and he tries to soften his reaction into a light chirp. “I can’t pay attention with your giant head taking up my peripheral vision, man.” As he says it, Adam’s car crosses the finish line.

Portman stands up, lifting his hands from the seatbacks in apology. “Sorry, dude. You guys play another round. I’ll be back in a few.”

They do play another round, this time on the New York track, and Fulton manages to win, though Adam isn’t far behind. Portman isn’t back yet, and Fulton can’t see him through the sprawl of machines and other kids.

“You play Soul Edge?” Fulton asks.

Adam’s face lights up. “I call Sigfried.”

“As if I’d ever be anything other than Mitsurugi.”

Portman reappears after Adam and Fulton have each won a round and are starting the tiebreaker. He watches from a polite distance and doesn’t draw closer until Mitsurugi lifts his sword over his shoulder in triumph. 

“Flawless victory,” Portman says, punching Fulton in the arm.

“Wrong game,” Fulton points out.

“Eh, whatever.” Then Portman pulls something out of his pocket and presses it into Fulton’s hands. “Here’s your prize!”

Fulton looks down to find himself holding a small green rubber duck with a yellow beak.

“Uh…”

“I won it. From one of those claw machines.” Fulton continues to stare at Portman blankly, and Portman gives him a clenched-teeth smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Fulton’s not sure he’s ever seen him look uncomfortable before. “You seemed like you needed it.”

Fulton squeezes the duck. It squeaks. His stomach flips over, and he can’t think of anything sarcastic to say. “Thanks,” he says, finally.

Behind them, Adam clears his throat. “You can take my place if you want, Portman. Since Fulton won and all.”

“Sure,” Portman says, breaking the eye contact he and Fulton were holding. “We can all agree that Voldo’s the best one, right?”

~*~

The three of them spend the next week of lunches talking about the arcade and all the games they didn’t get a chance to play, and they make plans to go again the next Sunday. Unfortunately, by the time Sunday morning rolls around, they grounds of the school are blanketed by two feet of snow and counting. None of the buses are running, and Dean Buckley announces that all non-emergency off-campus travel is officially prohibited until the storm passes.

“This sucks,” Fulton announces over breakfast. They’re sitting with most of the team, but the three of them are clustered on one end of the table, and everyone else is engaged in separate conversations.

“We could still play some games,” Adam says.

Fulton scoffs. “How? Do you have a teleporter in your dorm room?”

“No,” Adam says, “but I do have a Nintendo 64.”

Portman nearly chokes on his doughnut. “Dude,” he says, once he’s swallowed. “You’ve been holding out on us!”

Adam looks sheepish. “You never asked,” he says, but Fulton is pretty sure he means, _I still remember what happened the last time Ducks came into my room._ The fact that he’s offering now must mean that Portman’s plan is working.

“Will your roommate mind?” Portman asks.

“He’s always sneaking up to his girlfriend’s room. I doubt I’ll even see him today.”

Portman grins. “Awesome. Looks like you saved the day, buddy.” To accentuate his point, he reaches over and grinds an affectionate noogie on the top of Adam’s head. Adam smiles into it, looking pleased, and Fulton tries to remind himself that there’s no good reason he should be jealous.

When breakfast is over, the three of them troop up to Adam’s dorm room. As promised, his roommate is nowhere to be found, so Adam sits in his desk chair while Fulton and Portman crowd together on Adam’s bed. Adam’s TV is small, but it’s more than good enough for Mario Kart. They pick characters and take off, and Portman resettles himself on the bed, edging closer to Fulton.

After the fifth round, Portman is leading, and he’s moved over so much that his body is pressed to Fulton’s from shoulder to knee. It should be as frustrating as Portman’s presence had been at the arcade, but Fulton realizes he’s not frustrated at all. He’s not even that distracted. Portman’s body is warm and comfortable next to him, and that comfort is almost scarier than the way Fulton’s heart had been hammering in that Cruis’n seat.

Back in his dorm room, the rubber duck has been sitting on Fulton’s bedside table for the past week. It’s the last thing Fulton sees before he falls asleep.

“Ok, Banksy. You pick the next game,” Portman says, putting down his controller. “Unless you want me to keep kicking your asses with Yoshi here.”

Adam looks at them levelly, like he’s figured something out. He sets his controller down on his desk. “Can I say something first?”

“Sure,” Portman says.

Adam takes a deep breath. “I know what you guys are doing. And I appreciate it, I really do. It’s been awesome hanging out with you. But, uh. Sometimes I kind of feel like…like I’m the third wheel?”

Portman is quick to shake his head. “No way, man. There’s always room for more Bash Brothers in this family.”

Adam laughs. “I don’t do a whole lot of bashing. And that’s not what I mean. I know we’re friends. Maybe even family. It just…seems like the two of you may be more than that.”

Fulton doesn’t know what to say. Neither, it seems, does Portman.

Adam cringes, face red. “And now I’ve made it awkward. Look, I have to go pick something up from the library. You guys can stay here as long as you want.” He dashes out of the room before Fulton or Portman can say a word.

“So,” Fulton says. He doesn’t meet Portman’s eyes, but he can’t help noticing that they’re still pressed together on the bed.

“The cake-eater’s right,” Portman mumbles. “For me, at least.” Fulton didn’t know Portman’s voice could be that quiet.

“Yeah?” Fulton says. He thinks about Portman in the penalty box. About those swoops of jealousy. About that stupid rubber duck. “For me, too.”

Portman looks up, and Fulton can see something bright in his brown eyes. “I should have come in September,” he says. “I knew staying in Chicago was a mistake about two seconds after I decided to do it. I don’t always make the best decisions in the heat of the moment.” 

Fulton almost laughs. He can’t argue with that. 

“But until Bombay came to my house, I didn’t know I was allowed to change my mind,” Portman continues. “You gotta believe me.”

Fulton does. “Missed you,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah,” Portman says. “Me too. But we’re both here now, right?”

Fulton’s not sure who leans in first, but in an instant they’re crashing together, like they’ve been doing since the day they met. Portman’s lips are chapped and dry from the cold air of the rink, but the muscles of his arms are firm when Fulton grabs them and pushes Portman down onto the bed.

When they finally pull apart, panting heavily, Portman lets out a little laugh. “Probably shouldn’t be making out in Banksy’s bed,” he points out.

“Could be worse,” Fulton says. “We could be fire ants.”

~*~

The next day, Fulton finds Adam studying in an otherwise-empty common room.

“Hey,” he says, sitting down next to Adam on the couch.

Adam looks up from his book. “Hey. Everything work out ok for you guys? You were gone when I got back to my room.”

Fulton can’t help smiling. “More than ok,” he says.

Adam smiles back. “I’m glad.”

They sit in silence for a few seconds. Adam picks up his book like he’s going to go back to studying. Fulton knows he could leave right now.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead.

Adam drops his book but doesn’t say anything, waiting for Fulton to finish.

“What me and the guys did to you…it was shitty. I don’t have any excuses. I just thought you should hear it, straight up.”

Adam is silent for a long time. “I never wanted to be a Warrior,” he says, finally.

“I know that now,” Fulton says. “And you never really were. If it looks like a duck, and it walks like a duck…”

“Quack quack,” Adam says.

“That’s right.” Fulton reaches out and clasps Adam’s hand, pulling him into a hug. “Thanks for the push yesterday. Next time, let’s invite some of the other guys to the arcade, too. The more wheels, the merrier.”

“Sounds good to me,” Adam says. “I have a Cruis’n high score to defend.”

Fulton laughs. He feels lighter than he has in months. “We’ll see about that.”


End file.
